


counting backwards while the stars are falling

by girl0nfire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Diners, Dreams, Family Feels, First Time, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Tattooed Bucky, That One Time Everyone Was Happy, Trope Bingo Round 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But tonight’s different, Bucky knows it before he’s even completely asleep, because in that half-aware space somewhere between dreaming and consciousness he feels his skin prickling, his chest clenching like he’s lost something and he doesn’t know what it is, never even had it, and as oblivion overtakes him, all Bucky sees is the same face he’s seen in his dreams for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you move the earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flash0flight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flash0flight/gifts).



> \- a twenty-first birthday gift for my bihemispheric brain twin [flash0flight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flash0flight) <333  
> \- encouraged/spitballed/beta'd/cheer-led by [halfmoonsevenstars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars) and [seeyouinsovietrussia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seeyouinsovietrussia) because it takes a village  
> \- inspired by [this drabble](http://weinersoldier.tumblr.com/post/52517879779/steve-bucky) of mine on tumblr  
> \- title from Anberlin's "Retrace"

“Alright boys, pick it up, I’ve got three more tables that just walked in, come on.”

Natasha bangs through the double doors to the kitchen and clips the tickets just above the expediting window, snapping her fingers, all business like she always is. For some inexplicable reason, they’re in the weeds already, an hour into lunch rush on _Halloween_ of all days and already swamped. Bucky’s worried that they’ll be stuck having to do more prep work after his shift; he can’t afford that, can’t be late to his parents, because he _promised_ his mom he’d be there at six to help with the Trick or Treaters and there is _no way_ he’s driving crosstown in a Robin costume again. The cop who pulled him over for speeding last year almost laughed himself to tears.

He slides two plates into the window, nodding at Anya where she’s standing at Natasha’s elbow and she gathers them up, banging back out the door into the dining room with a tray that’s bigger than she is. Natasha doesn’t even break her stride, running a finger down the first ticket and clearing her throat.

“Okay – Table 12, two filet, one cremated, one still mooing.”

Somewhere behind Bucky, Clint snorts, ducking to pull the steaks from the cooler drawer below the line. He straightens again, elbows Bucky on his way to the flattop. 

“There’s a date that’s not gonna go so well.”

He drops the first steak, repeating the order back to Natasha, who nods before launching right back into her list, checking things off as she goes, another pencil shoved behind her ear.

“Table 14 wants three shrimp specials, all with no garlic.”

Bucky groans, wiping down his cutting board. That stupid shrimp special was Clint’s idea, and making it from scratch is going to be a nightmare -

“Who let the vampires in? C’mon Tasha, that’s a pain the ass –“

Natasha crosses her arms, glaring at him over the plates Eli’s placing in the window, and _goddamn_ somehow she’s still scary even half-obscured by a steaming plate of sea bass. She doesn’t even dignify him with an answer, leaning to look around him and raising her voice.

“That’s three shrimp no garlic all day, yeah boys?”

Clint and Eli repeat the order back, Eli already ducking around Bucky to get at the sliced leeks on the prep table, and Bucky smirks back up at Natasha as she loads plates onto another tray, passing it off on Rikki before rounding on Bucky again.

“Okay, smartass, you can have Table 20 then, six burgers, one medium, one medium-well, two well, one medium-rare, one rare, ready at the same time, if you don’t mind.”

Bucky can hear Clint and Eli snickering behind him over the flattop. He just grins at Natasha, reaching up to wave a mock salute before turning to go and rummage through the walk-in.

Natasha runs her restaurant with an iron fist, yeah, but that’s her thing. She’s fantastic, she doesn’t take any shit – really, Bucky couldn’t ask for much else, and Natasha was the only one in Indianapolis, it seemed, that was willing to take a chance on him right out of culinary school two years ago, willing to put some twenty-four year old nobody in her kitchen, and Bucky owes her a lot for that.

Now, though, they’re a team, and the Red Room’s booked solid for weeks at a time, generating enough press that Bucky’s had to rebuff more than a few offers to go elsewhere. But there’s no way, he’s not leaving Natasha, not leaving his staff. Clint and Eli are pains in his ass, but they work seamlessly, Bucky has _no idea_ how he got this lucky –

“Mother _fucker_!”

Clint’s voice echoes from the line, loud enough that Bucky’s pretty sure there’s going to be a few diners with complaints, and when he pokes his head out of the walk-in, Clint’s standing in front of the window with a look of abject _shock_ on his face, staring at Natasha who’s looking back at him with a smirk, a full plate balanced on each of her outstretched palms.

“How did you? They were – _Jesus_ ,” Clint runs a hand down his face, blinking at her, and it doesn’t take too long for Bucky to put together what’s happened, because it happens fairly often. Clint’s usually a little overzealous, tossing his dishes through the window, and usually if Natasha’s not expediting that means a full meal all over the floor, covered in broken glass to boot. But, Natasha’s faster than that.

“Don’t look so surprised, Barton, didn’t you know Tasha was a ninja in a past life?”

Bucky makes his way back into the kitchen, drops the burgers he’s got on the grill. Natasha passes the still-neat plates off on Anya when she comes back in and clucks at them, meeting Bucky’s eyes when he turns and looking smug, a glint of laughter in her eye.

“Assassin, Barnes. _Much_ better outfits.”

She whisks out of the kitchen, scarlet hair swaying behind her as she goes to check on the dining room, and Bucky takes over, stabbing tickets each time Clint and Eli drop more plates. They manage to get their heads above water again, working fast, and Bucky makes it out by five, just enough time to swing by his apartment before making the drive to his parents’ place at Camp Atterbury, mercifully still in his chef coat instead of that stupid costume, and he doesn’t even get a ticket this time.

His dad’s already got the yard decorated, it’s not much but it’s probably still more than is _technically_ allowed on the base, but no one’s going to complain, not when Bucky’s dad’s been around as long as he has. Besides, not many other people make such a big deal about Halloween, and the kids on the base _love it_. Bucky remembers what that’s like, getting to go from house to house, wearing his dad’s fatigue jacket from Desert Storm with the sleeves rolled up, his dented old helmet sitting so low Bucky’d have to tilt his head back just to see where he was going, holding his dad’s hand as they knocked on their neighbor’s doors and stayed out until it got dark.

So Bucky doesn’t mind that his mom insists on the matching costumes every year, although his dad’s not really in the shape for spandex anymore, looking a little more like Alfred than Batman, and Bucky wishes Becca were here instead of away at college, because she’d always made a great Wonder Woman, even if she liked to pretend she was entirely too cool for all of it. His mom doesn’t really do too much anymore, leaving the costumes to them and settling on a pair of cat ears, which is probably good, because he’s got to put up with enough of his parents’ gross sappy faces as they sit out on the porch swing holding hands while Bucky mans the candy bowl, high-fiving all the little Supermen and Captain Americas and Princesses who come to their door.

He stays late enough that his mom insists he shouldn’t drive back tonight – still worried about him like he’s sixteen, and _god_ , he’d only dented the fender of his dad’s car _that one time_ – so he lets her make up the couch, figuring he can get up and make them breakfast in the morning before he’s got to get back into the city for his dinner shift. And for some reason, Bucky always sleeps _really well_ at home – not that he doesn’t in his own place – but here it’s almost always dreamless sleep, devoid of any of the usual tricks of his subconscious.  


But tonight’s different, Bucky knows it before he’s even completely asleep, because in that half-aware space somewhere between dreaming and consciousness he feels his skin prickling, his chest clenching like he’s lost something and he doesn’t know what it is, never even had it, and as oblivion overtakes him, all Bucky sees is the same face he’s seen in his dreams for years.

Coney Island’s crowded, of course it is, it’s the dead of summer and Bucky’s shirt is sticking to his back, the sun beating down hot and clear and everything’s electric blue – the sky, the ocean slowly lapping at the shore, the set of bright eyes looking up at him. There’s a head of golden blond hair above those bottomless blue eyes, glinting in the sunlight, and Bucky wants to rest his hands on slim shoulders, lean down for a kiss but he knows they can’t, knows that it’s not safe. Instead he follows, and he doesn’t know where they’re going but it takes them a little further away from the crowd, toward the shops and restaurants and _god_ , Bucky wants to reach out for his hand, maybe settle his palm on the small of his back, but – 

The photo booths are new this summer, Bucky hasn’t seen them here before, but then a pair of small hands are tugging at his sleeve, pulling him inside before he can think too hard about it. It’s blessedly cooler inside the small space, the curtain blocking out most of the sun, long enough that anyone outside could only see their feet and Bucky _grins_ , knows exactly what’s happening. He digs in his pocket for a nickel, feeds it into the machine, and before the first flash those hands are tugging at him again, tangling in the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt, and Bucky’s heart flips over in his chest, hands coming to settle on sharp hips and this is _amazing_ , this is exactly what he’s been wanting. The first flash is like a lightning strike, blinding, popping white and purple behind Bucky’s closed eyes and even there, it’s the same face, burned in his memory like a photo negative, light and shadow and _unforgettable_.

Three more flashes, and they’ve got to move, they _have to_ , before their photos print and someone gets nosy, but Bucky can’t quite resist one more kiss before he pulls away, brushing his lips right between those sparkling eyes and thinking _yes_ , thinking _finally_ , thinking _always_.

Bucky oversleeps, waking up to the sound of his mother puttering around the kitchen, flipping pancakes and humming along to the radio, and by the time he’s up and moving around his dad’s already making coffee, stopping to take his mom’s hand, twirling her under his arm to the old Billy Joel song spilling from the speakers. He smiles at them both, pours himself a mug, and wonders what that’s like – having someone who’s going to put up with you forever, who knows how you like your coffee and what your favorite radio station is and how you take your eggs, who knows you don’t like thunderstorms and can’t stand olives on pizza and loves you anyway, the kind of person who’s still willing to dance with you when you’re fifty-two and in your nightdress, or still kiss you when you’re nearly retired and still think you can dress up like Batman.

He wonders what that’s like and that face swims into his vision again, that feeling of _forever_ settling somewhere glass-sharp in his chest, like some part of him’s always been just a little bit broken.

He wonders how many people are in love with someone they’ve never met.

+

Bucky’s back, three days later, for his mom’s birthday, bearing a bright pink cake that he and Eli had labored over for _hours_ , so glad it didn’t fall apart in the car that he almost drops it tripping up the stairs in his excitement to get it inside. He and his dad cook while she’s out getting her hair done, and his dad _insists_ it be a surprise, that everything be done and on the table before she gets back, and Bucky has to slap his own father’s hand away from the pasta sauce _three times_ because the old man has no taste buds and keeps insisting it needs more salt.

They open a bottle of wine from the restaurant – Natasha’s idea – and it’s times like this that Bucky’s almost mad he moved away, eating in comfortable silence with his parents, watching them smile at each other over their plates, his dad cracking awful jokes once his cheeks start reddening from the wine. Bucky clears the table afterward, and his dad settles into his chair in the living room while Bucky does the dishes, out like a light and snoring in a few minutes; his mom just laughs at him, walks over to kiss the top of his head before joining Bucky at the sink, reaching to dry the pans before Bucky can discourage her.

And she’s always been good with things like – this, Bucky knows that, she gives the best advice of anyone, and even though Bucky feels stupid even _thinking it_ , maybe she’s the one to ask. But how is he supposed to string that together? How is he supposed to – what? Tell her he can’t stop dreaming about some guy he’s sure he’s in love with, even though they’ve never met?

Bucky focuses on the plate he’s scrubbing, splashing water up his sleeves and his mother clucks at him, reaching to take it out of his hands.

“Honestly, Bucky – you’ll ruin your shirt.”

Winifred rinses it herself before placing it on the rack to dry, and then she turns and rests her hip against the counter, eying Bucky like he doesn’t have at least six inches on her – but then again, she’s always been able to make herself pretty intimidating when she wants to be.

“What is it? You’ve been distracted.”

Yep, she’s got his number. Always has. If anything, Bucky’s mom has one of the world’s most finely tuned bullshit detectors – but that _might_ have something to do with being _his_ mother, so maybe he should take some of the credit.

He shuts the water off, wiping his hands on the towel she offers.

“Nothing, mom, just… Been having weird dreams lately.”

 _Lately_ , sure. Since he was seventeen? Maybe weird isn’t exactly the way to qualify it.

His mom looks up at him kindly, reaching to cup his cheek for a moment. It’s a reassuring gesture, one he’s always liked, and she doesn’t do it too often anymore so Bucky doesn’t feel badly about leaning into her hand just a little.

“You’ll get through it, dear. Our dreams are always trying to tell us something, and knowing _you_ you’re being stubborn, so – don’t try and think you know better, let them get their point across.”

Bucky can’t help but frown a little at that, because he’s _trying_. He’d like to know what these dreams are saying, he really would, because as far as he knows he’s never once been to Coney Island, never shared a shitty one-room apartment with a rattling cough, never worn a scratchy woolen uniform in the middle of New York in July –

“I dreamed about your dad, a lot. Before we met. I never saw his face too clear, but – he was there.”

Her hand falls away, and she busies herself putting dishes away while Bucky twists the towel in his hands, searching for something to say.

“Your grandma always said it meant I was going to meet him. She damn near dropped her teacup when I brought him home the first time.”

She smiles at the memory, fond, and Bucky doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart over to the living room again. And maybe it’s that easy, maybe Bucky’s being too hard on himself. Maybe all of this is just – a warning, or a promise.

The thought makes his heart beat a little faster.

He bends to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek, putting the towel back on the hook.

“Thanks, mom. I – Thanks.”

+

Thanksgiving’s always been just the three of them, and Steve likes it that way.

They’ve got it down by now, after almost thirty years, and between his mom’s meal and the few hours spent hollering at the television with his dad, watching the Giants master the art of the comically incomplete pass, Steve’s happy, full, and _exhausted_ by nine o’clock.

And he always stays on holidays, letting his mom fuss over him, ask him if he’s had enough to eat, wave him away when he tries to help her clean, talking over her and insisting on doing the dishes. His room’s still the way he left it when he moved out at seventeen to go to NYU, the same blue-striped curtains, faded posters on the walls. Steve settles in around ten, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before he’s got to get up and head back to his own apartment to clean up, because there’s no way he can afford another day off, not with how many pages he’s still got left to complete and get into his editors before the first of December.

He tries not to worry about it, but he still ends up going over layouts and panels in his head as he stretches out on his old bed, his feet hanging off the end of it like they have since he was fifteen. And it must be that, thinking about work, because once he’s asleep he’s dreaming again, the same one he’s been having for years, the same one he _still_ can’t make sense of.

Steve hit a growth spurt in high school, coming back the first day of sophomore year taller and broader in the right places, stronger and bigger than most of the kids that’d given him grief over taking art classes and falling behind in gym. And he’d always figured these dreams were just some sort of – psychological thing, his subconscious’ way of gloating about that, working out some kind of unconscious issue because what formerly skinny kid _wouldn’t_ want to be Captain America?

So when he dreams of it, like he’s been doing since then, sees himself in his dreams in that uniform, giving orders and taking fire, gathering around a map with a group of familiar faces, men with different accents but matching serious smiles, Steve writes it off in the daylight as – wish fulfillment, maybe, because what else are dreams if not that?

And it’d be that simple, just that easy to shrug off and forget, enjoy privately, if it wasn’t for – _him_.

It’s no different tonight.

They’re somewhere in the thick of occupied France, camped out in a murky, moldy forest and it’s _freezing_ , has to be the dead of winter or close to it. Steve’s laid out on a cot, covered in every part of his bedroll he could spare, listening to the rain drum against the dark canvas of the tent above him and his uniform’s folded carefully nearby, resting atop his trunk, muted red-white-blue in the dim light, the shield gleaming next to it and he’s not even sure what time it is, _what day it is_ , but it doesn’t matter.

Someone unzips the tent flap, sliding inside and they’re _soaked_ , clear through to their skin, dark hair sticking to their forehead and there’s a shaky twist in Steve’s chest, like there always is when he sees him, when he –

“I’m gonna kill that moron Stark if I can get my hands on him,” he says, leaning his rifle against one of the tent poles and stripping off his sodden sweater without preamble, letting it fall into a heap on the ground. He’s shivering, his bare chest glistening wet, and there are still bruises along his shoulders, his arms, pink-raw scars striping his back.

“’ _The weather’s lovely in France_ ,’ He said. I’ll kill him.”

He makes quick work of his pants, too, toeing off muddy boots and peeling off the water-dark fabric, and soon he’s standing near the foot of Steve’s cot in nothing but his briefs, still shivering slightly and _Jesus_ , Steve wishes he could sketch this, could spend days – _years_ – shading in that uncertain glint in his eyes, but he can’t, he could never, it’s not worth the risk of getting caught.

There’s two cots in the tent, but Steve doesn’t know why, doesn’t even consider it, just lifts up the edge of his blankets and he doesn’t even have to _ask_ , because soon Steve’s shifting to make space to accommodate another frigid body and he doesn’t care that there are already cold, wet handprints seeping into his shirt. He presses his cheek to damp curls and it won’t be long, the serum makes him run hot and for now Steve’s thankful for that, wrapping an arm around him and it doesn’t take much to get him to settle on Steve’s chest, face pressed to Steve’s shoulder.

Steve doesn’t know much – the ultimate price of war is uncertainty, he thinks he might know that more than anyone – but he knows _this_. This is real, it’s solid and it’s the best thing he’s got, the only thing, and he won’t let go of it, can’t. Steve traces careful fingers along his back and tries not to feel the way the scars brush against his fingertips, rougher and warmer than the rest of his skin, pressing kisses into drying hair.  


Steve doesn’t know much – but Steve knows this. Knows that he loves this – loves _him_.

Even after Steve wakes, sheets tangled around him in the darkness of his room, everything – the rustle of the curtains, the sound of the old house creaking, the blinking green numbers on the clock – everything says that he loves him.

God, Steve loves him.

+

“ _Steven_?”

The light clicks on in the stairwell that leads to the kitchen, spilling out across the tiles, and Steve looks up from the table, squinting in the dimness of the room. And he’s never been able to hear his mom coming, he thinks it must be one of those powers mothers just _have_ , and before he knows it she’s already down the stairs and crossing the kitchen, looking at him worriedly.

She’s wearing the same housecoat she’s had for fifteen-odd years, blue flowers and long sleeves, the lace on the collar a little yellowed by now. Dad had bought it for her for Christmas when Steve was fourteen; he remembers because his dad had been so _nervous_ to give it to her, because he never bought her clothes. His relieved smile was the first thing Steve’d put in the brand-new leather-bound sketchbook they’d given him, and it’d taken him three tries to get it right, a little crooked and still sleep-loose and it would be a long time before Steve realized he saw that smile on himself sometimes, too.

In fact, the sketchbook Steve’s got spread open in front of him is that very same kind; ever since his parents had walked into the art store on Atlantic Avenue that Christmas and asked for the best sketchbooks they had, Steve’s been using them. He’s got a box back at his apartment, full of maybe – thirty of them? His mom had kept them all, every one he’d filled in junior high and high school, and when he’d moved into his first real apartment she’d brought them over.  


She stops at the edge of the table, lifting a hand to settle on his shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple.

“What are you doing awake? It’s nearly two, Steve.”

Steve turns the pencil he’d been using over in his hand, tapping the eraser gently against the still-blank page as he reaches to rest his free hand over hers at his shoulder. His mom’s hands are one of his favorite things to draw; sweet, definite, strong, they’re impossible to capture and he likes it that way, knowing the only time he’ll ever truly see them is when he sees her.

“Couldn’t sleep, you know – figured I’d try to get some work done.”

Sarah laughs and it’s soft, light even in the darkness and Steve can’t help but smile, squeezing her hand. She doesn’t – he could tell her, he should, because for some reason Steve’s sure if anyone’s got an answer it’s her. But it’s late, and Steve can’t ask that of her, not now.

She cards her free hand through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and Steve leans into it, the familiarity of it, the safety there. It doesn’t matter now, the dreams don’t matter, for a few moments that face stops swimming behind his eyes and maybe it’s going to make sense, eventually. Maybe he just has to be patient.

“Looks like you’re getting a lot done, too,” Sarah teases, stepping back into the kitchen and reaching up to retrieve a mug from the cabinet above the sink, picking the kettle off the stove and filling it.

“Are you hungry?”

He can’t help a chuckle at that, because his mom’s never going to get over the fact that he’s not some skinny kid anymore, that he doesn’t need to gain weight, that she doesn’t have to keep reminding him to eat. She’s going to worry about him _forever_ , and honestly, Steve doesn’t really mind. Nodding, he twirls his pencil between his fingers, letting the fond feeling in his chest warm him right up, chasing away the last of the strangeness of the dream.

“Always, you know that.”

Steve lets his mom bustle around the kitchen, fixing him a turkey sandwich and making them both mugs of tea, stopping once in a while to smile warmly up at him like she’s been doing since he was tall enough to sit at this table, old enough to remember. Neither of them pay too much attention to the way the hands on the clock don’t seem to budge until it’s nearly three, Steve caught up in finally filling that damned blank page with a rough sketch of his mother’s hands wrapped around the chipped yellow mug, another of the way her hair’s curling over her forehead, still pulled back and tidy even after she’d gotten out of bed in the middle of the night.

He wishes he had brought his watercolors with him, something to capture the shades of gold in her hair as they sweep into gray at her temples, but he tries to just shade it in instead, tongue caught between his teeth as she watches him in a comfortable silence. Steve knows she’s not _just_ watching; she’s reading him, sorting through, trying to decide what to say, how to say it, because if his mom’s good at anything it’s seeing right through him and maybe that’s what he really needs right now.

Sometime around half-past three she abandons her mug on the table, reaching across to still Steve’s hands, gathering them both up atop the still-open sketchbook. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, but it’s not a whisper – it’s clear, reassuring and steady like it’s always been and Steve hopes that one day he’ll meet someone like her, someone that feels bigger than they really are, stronger than they look.

The face from his dreams flashes unbidden across Steve’s mind again, and he closes his eyes against it, reopening them to find his mom still watching him, thumbs brushing over the backs of his hands.

“Sometimes the things you think you’re missing just haven’t found you yet, Steve.”

And there it is, Steve doesn’t know how she does it. He meets her eyes, letting his shoulders sag, knowing that she’s got him covered, even without him ever having to ask.

That’s how it’s always been, really.

“If it’s worth it, dear, it’ll be worth waiting for.”

When she gets up to go back upstairs, Steve closes his sketchbook and follows her, spends the next few hours watching the shadows shift across the ceiling of his old room, wondering how she knew he was missing something.

Some _one_.

+

Indianapolis International is a _nightmare_ , Bucky hates this stupid airport, mostly because it seems to have some kind of supernatural pull that _always makes him late_. He’s spent nearly an hour in security, and _of course_ , he’s the one they pull aside for ‘special screening’, the TSA agent smiling patronizingly at him as they pat him down, raising an eyebrow at the tattoo winding down his arm when they reach it.

Asshole.

He doesn’t even have time for coffee, and it’s not like it’s _that_ early but he’d been at the restaurant until nearly three in the morning, making sure there was enough stock to keep the place running while he was gone for a few days, leaving Clint in charge and wondering if that was really a good idea. It’s not like he can do anything about it, really, he’s got his tickets in hand and Becca’s waiting for him, ready to spend Christmas together because she’s got a few weeks off school. Bucky’s never been to Brooklyn, but Becca loves it; she’s been at Pratt studying fashion design for two years already, Bucky can hardly believe it, she’s going to be _twenty_ in April and that just makes him feel old.

His flight’s already nearly boarded, and Bucky has to dash the last few yards to make it before they close the doors. He’s the last person down the jet way, and he doesn’t even have to double-check his ticket because his seat’s got to be the last open one on the whole damn plane. It’s a window seat, thank god, but the person on the aisle’s already asleep and Bucky has to sort of half-climb, half-shimmy over them so he doesn’t even notice the person in the middle until he’s finally dropped into his own seat, buckling the seatbelt and kicking his duffel bag underneath the seat ahead.

Bucky reaches up to flick on the overhead light, and when he does, he –

The guy sitting next to him is _gorgeous_ , and Bucky has to do a double take because he looks so _familiar_ , too, and Bucky can’t quite put his finger on it, but –

 _No fucking way_.

Okay, he’s clearly hallucinating. He’d say he was dreaming but they’re on a plane, he’s _obviously_ awake because the sunlight streaming through the open window next to him sort of hurts. It’s – this can’t actually be happening, there’s no way this guy’s…. That guy.

That’s not how things work.

Is it?

Bucky holds the guy’s eyes for a beat longer than he should, because they’re _strangers_ , there’s no reason for him to stare, so he casts around for something to say, something to justify himself.

“Full flight, huh?”

_Smooth, Barnes. Really excellent._

The guy chuckles, pushing a hand through his hair – blond, almost golden and Bucky wants to reach out and touch it, but he puts that idea _right_ back down, because it’s _ridiculous_. He has to – know this guy from somewhere, has to have seen him in a bar or met him in school or, fuck if he knows, slept in a bunk bed with him at summer camp, _there has to be a reason_. Something that isn’t ‘I’ve been dreaming about you’ because god, does _that_ sound like the worst pick-up in existence.

“Yeah, looks like it,” the guy says, those luminous blue eyes darting around the crowded space, and Bucky watches the curve of his lips when he speaks, tries to tear his eyes away before he says something stupid, before he –

“This is going to sound _really weird_ , forgive me, I haven’t had my coffee yet, but – Do I _know you_? You look so familiar.”

And Bucky has to laugh at himself, has to avert his eyes just for a _second_ , because everything’s sort of tilting sideways – this _can’t be_ , he’s got to get himself together.

“I – I don’t think so?” The guy shifts in his seat, turns until he’s facing Bucky a little more fully. He extends a hand and _that_ feels weird, shaking his hand when Bucky can recall _vividly_ how those hands have felt on his skin, _no_ , that’s – it’s not real, _this is real_ , Bucky’s brain needs to _shut up_.

“Steve… Steve Rogers, I‘m headed back home to Brooklyn.”

“Ja – Bucky. Barnes.” Bucky tries not to think about how _warm_ his hand is, tries not to think about how the pencil calluses feel like he’d imagined they would. 

“I’m from – here, just. Going to Brooklyn to see my sister.”

This is _awkward_ , Christ, he never should’ve said _anything_ , this poor guy probably thinks he’s nuts. Bucky drops his hand, settles back a bit in his seat. Probably best to give the guy – Steve – give _Steve_ an out.

“Sorry to bother you.”

+

Steve is trying _so hard_ not to let his jaw drop, because there’s – no way, this is just – _no way_.

Because every dream he’s had since he was sixteen is _staring him in the face_ , living and talking and _breathtaking_. Sure, he’s – he looks different, a little bit, his hair’s longer and there’s a dark blue tattoo wending it’s way down his bicep, but his _eyes_ are the same, dark brown and piercing, looking into his own and Steve’s breath catches in his throat before he can help it.

“No, you’re not bothering–“ 

The words are out before Steve can stop them, and for a perilous second he’s sure he sounds sort of desperate, a little silly, but he manages to stop himself from reaching out to him, which is a small victory in itself.

“It’s not a bother, really. You look familiar, too.”

And this could be interesting, because Steve’s sure there’s no way this guy has any real clue, Steve’s good with faces and he’s fairly certain they’ve never met, but the idea that… Bucky _recognizes him too_ sends a strange feeling swooping through his gut, low and shaky.

So they play the game of Have You Ever Been for a while, tossing cities, restaurants, people, _summer camps_ back and forth, trying to pull the right thread, find the one that’s got them tied together. The longer they go on, the smoother their conversation goes, and in the spaces between his answers Steve tries to memorize the lines of Bucky’s face, take in everything, looking for the differences more than the similarities and trying to convince himself that this isn’t what it feels like, what it _looks_ like.

“Camp Lehigh? New Jersey?”

Bucky tosses another handful of peanuts into his mouth, chewing absently, lost in thought.

“No? Although there’s a fort nearby, my dad was stationed there for a while.”

Steve taps his fingers against his tray table, twisting his face into something thoughtful. He likes this, learning about each other. Bucky’s easy to talk to, letting out bits of his own life as they carry on, and Steve’s _fascinated_.

“You know, for a chef, you’re sure putting those stale peanuts away,” Steve chuckles, picking up his own bag and dropping it onto Bucky’s tray.  


“Don’t think I’ve ever been to a military base in my life, actually.”

The plane rocks side-to-side, the windows whiting out for a moment while they descend, and when the Captain makes an announcement that they’ll be landing at JFK in a few minutes Steve’s not even really surprised, because he feels like he could do this _forever_ , talking about everything and nothing with Bucky. And it’s going to be over, too soon – but what’s he supposed to say?

Steve’s searching for a way to prolong this, silent as the flight attendant comes by for their trash, trying not to let his eyes track the way Bucky’s throat works when he swallows the last of his cup of coffee.

Bucky fills the last of their flight asking Steve questions about his art, the different titles he’s worked on, prodding him to talk about the meeting he’s just come from with Image in San Francisco, and Steve finds that even talking about _work_ is easy with him.

“I’d like to see your sketches, sometime,” Bucky says as the plane’s landing gear squeals against the runway, and Steve’s first instinct is to reach into his bag, pull out his sketchbook, and he _never_ does that, never just – _volunteers_ his art like that, but Steve’s pretty sure Bucky could ask him for just about _anything_ and he couldn’t say no. 

That’s – that’s dangerous.

The only thing that stops him is the fact that _this_ book – his personal one, not the one he uses for work – is almost completely full of drawings of Steve’s dreams, sketches he uses to let the anxiety out when he wakes up in the middle of the night, landscapes and warzones and shields and unfamiliar smiling faces and _Bucky_.

Well, not _him_ , but – Steve’s sure Bucky’ll see the resemblance, it’s uncanny, there’s no way he’d miss it and Steve has no explanation for that, nothing that doesn’t sound ridiculous and serendipitous and _insane_.

“Sure, I’d – “ 

Steve bends to get his wallet, unzipping the front pocket of his bag and pulling out one of his business cards.

“Here, you can – Got a portfolio online now, one of my editors insisted.”

And if the card’s got his email and his cell number on it, too, sue him. He hands it to Bucky, trying to ignore the way their fingers brush when Bucky takes it, shifting his hips up to slip it in his back pocket, and Steve _definitely_ ignores the way his t-shirt rides up, exposing pale skin stretched over the sharp point of a hipbone before Bucky tugs it back down, looking up to smile at Steve again.

The plane comes to a stop, the cabin filling with idle chatter and the buzz of a hundred cellphones, and as Steve makes his way down the aisle, Bucky following closely behind him, he wonders if this is his chance, if he’s going to get another one. There’s – he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t want to say something wrong, doesn’t want Bucky to get the wrong idea about him, but the idea of walking out of this airport and never seeing him again is too much, makes Steve feel a little hollow.

Bucky catches up to him just outside the jet way, jogging a little to keep up, and Steve turns to face him, trying not to let the hope that bubbles up in his chest choke him.

“Here,” Bucky offers him his ticket stub, rumpled from his pocket, and when Steve turns it over in his hand there’s numbers inked hastily on the back, an email address scrawled beneath it.

“Figured we… never really sorted out how we knew each other, so. In case you remember.”

+

Becca’s studio is too small for the two of them, so Bucky’d made plans to stay at a hotel nearby, letting her keep her own space and giving them a place to stretch out, if they wanted. He’d made sure to book two beds in case she felt like staying, but the first night he’s in she gets stuck working late, leaving Bucky to his own devices and that’s how he finds himself sitting in his rather lonely hotel room, glowering at a sub-par room service grilled cheese and examining Steve’s business card for the hundredth time.

It’s a neat thing, one side yellowed like a sketchbook page, printed with a pencil drawing of a monkey on a unicycle, Steve’s initials emblazoned in the corner. He flips it between his fingers, running his thumb over the letters embossed on the back.

  
**Steve Rogers**   


  
**Freelance Cartoonist, Illustrator, Animator**   


  
**Independent Comic Artist**   


  
**Eisner Award Best Cover Artist ’11**   


Bucky traces the neat row of numbers beneath them with a light touch, like he doesn’t already have them memorized, like he hasn’t already imputed them into his phone and started a dozen texts, erasing every single one before he could get too brave and send it.

And maybe it’s the early morning, or the plane ride, or the fact that Becca had drug him all _over_ the city today, taking him to her campus, up Fifth Avenue to see the offices where she’s doing her internship, through the East Village for dinner before she got called into work – and Bucky doesn’t want to think too hard about what constitutes an ‘emergency’ in the fashion world, especially because he can’t imagine it’s anything worthwhile enough to take away his baby sister at nine o’clock three days before Christmas – but Bucky’s _exhausted_. He knows he should try and get some sleep, he and Becca have tickets for a matinee tomorrow, and if he stays up much longer it’s going to seem like a good idea to call Steve, and he _really_ shouldn’t do that.

He tidies up the room, trashing the underwhelming sandwich and changing into his pajamas, brushing his teeth before he falls back into bed, and he’s asleep almost instantly in the still-lit room.

Wind whips up around him, and Bucky’s hands are _aching_ , he can feel the pull of his wrists, his joints protesting under his own weight but he _can’t let go_ , he _can’t_. His skin pulls white over his knuckles as he grits his teeth, tries to climb back inside, knocked back by the speed of the train every time.

Someone’s shouting, but it’s lost to the rush of the frigid wind, the train streaking by so quickly every color around him is spiraling into gray, into frozen blackness, edging into his vision and _no_ , Bucky can’t give in, he has to pull himself up, he has to _fight_ , he has to get back to –

Breaking into the tunneling slipstream of the train, there’s a red glove on an outstretched hand, bright against the dreary darkness and reaching out for him and it’s a _lifeline_ ; Bucky has to reach for it, because it’s the only thing he’s got, his last hope, his _only hope_ , and if he doesn’t take it now he won’t ever have another chance, he’ll be lost. So he stretches out a hand, risks his own hold to grasp for that one bright spot, trying to seize it, pull himself up, _give himself just one more chance_.

Bucky’s scream is torn away from him by the wind, and he’s falling, falling falling falling and there’s nothing left to do but close his eyes.  
He starts awake, choking on a final breath of freezing air, cold sweat beading on his brow and before Bucky can gather himself he’s plucking his phone from the nightstand, typing out a message before his chest stops heaving.

+

Steve’s blinking back what he’s promising himself aren’t tears, still trying to make sense of the taste of ash and smoke and whiskey in his mouth when his phone buzzes near his pillow, the brightness of the screen seeping behind his still-closed eyes.

He has to drag in another breath to steady himself, and _Christ_ , he hasn’t felt like this since he was a kid, like every breath is an effort, straining to fill his lungs. When he retrieves his phone, he notices it’s only midnight; he’s only been asleep for a half hour or so. And it’s – never been like this, the dreams have never been _bad_ before, but Steve’s heart’s still racing as he focuses, and the name on the screen says – _Bucky_?

It’s not – sure, Steve’d waited all of two minutes to save the number in his phone, turned that stupid crumpled ticket over and over in his hand, taped it carefully inside the front cover of his sketchbook, but he hadn’t even _thought_ that Bucky would actually –

Steve swipes his finger across the screen, opening the message.

(317): _Brooklyn’s not an easy place to sleep. Know a place for a good cup of coffee?_

There’s an answer before Steve can contemplate all the ways this is a bad idea, the memory of a burned-out bar still too fresh to keep him from hitting ‘send’.

(646): _Yeah, there’s a diner by Grand Army Plaza. Shouldn’t be too far from Pratt._

He hesitates for a second, his finger hovering over the screen.

(646): _I’m not exactly. Sleeping so great myself. Mind a little company?_

And it’s the longest minute of Steve’s life, because he’s _sure_ that’s too much, too close to a cheap come on, but before he even has time to contemplate all the ways he can backpedal, how quickly he can apologize, his phone buzzes again.

(317): _Not at all. See you in twenty minutes?_

Steve’s out of bed before his reply’s even sent, yanking on a pair of pants and trying desperately to do something with his hair. The diner’s only a few blocks from his apartment – and no, he did _not_ do that on purpose, of course not – so by the time he’s brushed his teeth and changed his sweater twice he’s still on time, sliding into a stool at the counter with two minutes to spare.

He considers ordering a cup of coffee, but something makes him wait, his fingertips tapping anxiously against the blue plastic countertop as the clock over the door ticks past twelve thirty. And he’s not nervous, he’s got no reason to be, because this is _nothing_ , it’s just coffee with an acquaintance. Helping out a tourist, being nice.

An acquaintance-tourist Steve’s fairly sure he’s been in love with since he was sixteen. Or you know, an acquaintance-tourist that’s the _spitting goddamn image_ of the imaginary person Steve’s been in – wow, he is _so much more screwed_ than he thought.

Anxiety flares under his skin, pricking along his arms and Steve has to peel his eyes away from the clock, his fingertips stilling against the counter when the bell above the door rings.

Bucky slides in beside him, and the first thing Steve notices is he looks _exhausted_ ; his hair’s a little wild and there are faint purple shadows beneath his eyes. Steve barely manages a greeting before he’s letting his eyes run over Bucky’s face, trying to sort out what’s got him wound up, like he – god, like Steve could _fix it_ , like it’s his place to.

The coffee’s not half-bad, even if you’ve got to chew it a little, and Steve can’t help but smile when Bucky orders a slice of pie, because he _knew_ that was going to happen, knew that he was going to stir his coffee before he added sugar, setting it swirling in the mug before dropping a sugar cube in, knew he was going to pick up his fork with his left hand. There’s _so much_ about this man that’s familiar to him, things that he has no business knowing about a stranger, little details that Steve _loves_ , the flecks of green in his eyes, the way his hair looks black until you’re close enough to see the way it gleams sort of bronze, the fact that he’s steadily picking the top crust from his pie, saving it for last.

It’s like – there’s a whole _lifetime_ inside Steve’s head, an endless, bottomless _something_ , and _he wants it_ so desperately but he doesn’t even know how to begin. He watches Bucky sip his coffee, and the pain of staying silent finally becomes overwhelming.

“So, how do you like Brooklyn so far?”

Bucky swings around in his stool, turning to face Steve and his knee brushes Steve’s thigh, the touch sending a jolt right to Steve’s stomach.

“It’s not bad, sort of like the neighborhood. Don’t have this many trees in Indianapolis.”

Steve laughs into his mug, eyes tracing the curve of Bucky’s smile as it twists up the left side of his lips.

“Don’t let the park fool you. They keep _all_ the trees there.”

And the way that grin pulls wider across Bucky’s face is a _miracle_ , Steve feels it in his veins, the brightness of it ghosting across his skin and for the first time since they’ve met he doesn’t think about all the other times he’s sure he’s seen it, because seeing it _now_ is like seeing it for the first time. Bucky chuckles, pushing a bit of apple around his plate with his fork, and for a while they sit in a companionable silence, sipping their coffee, before Bucky speaks again, his words thin like they’re not quite what he means.

“I should probably get going, you know – Early morning.”

Steve nods, because what else is he going to do? He signals the waitress for their check, waving Bucky off when he tries to put cash in and when Steve opens the door Bucky doesn’t hesitate, setting out into the night, tugging his coat more closely around him.

+

Bucky tries not to slow down, tries to tell himself that letting Steve catch up is a _bad idea_ , because there are words he’s been trying to hold down, pushing back all night and he’s not sure how much longer he can do this. He bites the inside of his cheek, his breaths coming fast as he heads down the sidewalk, spiraling into steam in the frigid night air and he’s back on that fucking train again, grasping for something that feels like his _last chance_ and when he hears Steve walking quietly behind him Bucky turns on his heel, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Steve’s wrist and hoping they don’t close on nothing but cold air.

He can’t keep everything he wants to say back, doesn’t even really think he wants to anymore, because the words feel important, and what’s the big deal? If all of this goes crooked, if Bucky makes an ass out of himself, it’s not like they ever have to see each other again, right?

“Look, Steve – it’s going to sound crazy, but I think I know why you’re so familiar.”

Steve looks up from where Bucky’s fingers are digging dents into his wrist, and he looks surprised, but there’s something else in his eyes, too. Bucky’s pulse thuds in his ears and he can’t keep this secret anymore, just gives up and lets the words pour out of him, hitting the air between them and blooming like fresh blood.

“I think I – I think I dreamed you up.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, not ready to see the look of amusement he’s sure is going to cross Steve’s face. His heart stalls in his chest, everything around them falling silent, and Bucky doesn’t know how long they stand there before a pair of strong, familiar hands grips the lapels of his coat and Steve’s lips meet his.

Bucky’s eyes fly open in surprise, and Steve’s _everywhere_ , plastering them together hips to chest and Bucky lets his arms wrap around Steve’s neck, leaning up into the kiss and hoping it doesn’t ever end, losing himself in the warm give of Steve’s lips against his, the soft stroke of Steve’s tongue against his own. And it’s – surprising, because kissing Steve is nothing like Bucky remembers, like he thinks he’s done a thousand times before.

 _It’s better_.

One of Steve’s arms comes to loop around Bucky’s waist, the other hand curling around his hip and this is _everything_ , this is yes and forever and always and _now_. Bucky’s hands come to grip at Steve’s shoulders, and for one everlasting second they’re breathing the same air, and that part of Bucky that’s always felt a little broken shifts, like his whole body’s sighing.

 _Oh, there you are_.

“Please tell me your apartment’s not far.”

+

Steve’s mind is reeling, images and memories and questions crashing together, threatening to pull him under, pull him away from _this_ , but then Bucky tugs him down for another kiss the minute the elevator doors in his building close and Steve’s mind goes blissfully blank.

It’s a miracle they make it down the hallway without stumbling into a wall, Steve’s hands fumbling with his keys when Bucky shifts to kiss a line down his jaw, and they topple into Steve’s apartment together, wrapped around each other like this is all they’ve both wanted for _lifetimes_. As soon as Steve can get the door shut he crowds Bucky back against it, slipping the deadbolt closed and tangling a hand in his hair, leaning down for another kiss because he can’t get enough of them.

And he thought he knew _everything_ , thought he’d learned everything there was to know about the man that’s lived in his dreams for _years_ but every press of their lips, every shift of their bodies, every brush of Steve’s hands pulls something new out into the open. Steve pushes Bucky’s coat off his shoulders, letting it fall to puddle at their feet and Bucky _groans_ , something deep and reverent and that’s brand new, _Jesus_ , Steve wasn’t prepared for it, for the way Bucky unzips his jacket with searching hands and runs his palms over Steve’s chest, fingers pressing dents into his waist.

Bucky tugs at the hem of Steve’s sweater, pulling it untucked, and Steve lets him peel it up and off, shucking off his t-shirt after it. He has to pull in a breath, steady himself, because this is almost too much and he wants it to _last_ , wants it to be real, they can’t – As much as Steve wants to lose himself in Bucky, find his every seam and take him to pieces, memorize the way he falls apart, he doesn’t want to do it _here_. Sliding his hands down Bucky’s arms, Steve takes his hands, their fingers shifting to slot together like the tumblers of a long-forgotten lock, and he leans to nose against Bucky’s neck as he speaks.

“Let me – I want to – Bedroom?”

A quiet nod is all Steve needs before he’s leading Bucky down the hall to his room, sitting on the end of the bed and pulling Bucky to him again, skimming his hands from Bucky’s hips up to his chest and rucking up his t-shirt, lifting it off when Bucky raises his arms. He pulls Bucky down, into his lap, ghosting kisses along his collarbone and pulling up short, eyes running over the dark blue tattoo arcing over Bucky’s left shoulder and winding down his arm.

Steve looks up to find Bucky watching him with liquid, dark eyes and the answer’s out before Steve even has time to ask.

“First thing my sister ever drew, she was five. Said it was a picture of me.”

And it’s another thing Steve doesn’t know, another new beginning, something exciting and unfamiliar and _amazing_. Steve doesn’t know when he’ll stop looking for the differences, when he’ll stop trying to tell himself this is anything but incredible serendipity, some kind of happy universal accident, but Bucky has a _sister_ , a sister and a family and a life outside of Steve’s head, he’s _real_ and Steve wants all of that, wants to learn it all and fill in every gap.

Lifting a hand, Steve trails careful fingers over the lines and dots, and Bucky’s smile falters on a gasp, his eyes falling closed for a moment before Steve leans up to kiss along the curve of his shoulder, drawing another small sound from him, barely a breath in the silence of the room. 

Bucky’s hands drop to Steve’s shoulders, guiding him back with a gentle push, and Steve toes off his shoes before moving further up the bed, watching Bucky do the same before crawling up to meet him, eyes raking up Steve’s body as he shifts to hover over him, pressing them together on a long, slow roll of his hips that drags a moan from Steve. Slipping his hands down Bucky’s back, Steve arches back up against him, fitting his hands to Bucky’s hips again and leaning up to mouth at his neck, breathing quiet words against Bucky’s skin.

“I don’t think you made me up, Bucky –“

Another roll of Bucky’s hips and Steve can feel him already hard, the muscles in his back trembling as he holds himself above Steve’s body. Steve drops his hands to work at Bucky’s belt, flicking it open and unbuttoning his jeans, working them down his hips before pushing at him gently, letting Bucky kick them off before rolling onto his back, hands already seeking out the button of Steve’s pants.

“Because you’ve been real for me for a long time, _too_ long.”

Steve kicks his own pants away, looking up and taking in the sight of Bucky beneath him, shivering slightly and already reaching for him again, eyes bright and wide and there are no bruises shadowing his chest, there are no scars, _thank god there’s no scars_ , and Steve can draw this, now. Steve can spend _hours_ drawing this, shading in every curve of Bucky’s body, never worrying about anything but the way the lines are capturing the soft curve of Bucky’s hip, the delicate dip of his waist. All of it. 

God, they can have _all of this_.

Tracing his fingers across Bucky’s hip, Steve reaches to palm Bucky’s cock through his underwear, leaning up to nip at the corner of his jaw.

“Please, tell me – Tell me this is what you want.”

Bucky _whines_ , canting his hips up to meet Steve’s hand, and he nods, bottom lip caught between his teeth and when he speaks his voice sounds hoarse.

“Steve, _yes_ , come on – for – for _so long_ –“

He’s beautiful like this, hands gripping at Steve’s waist, pushing at the waistband of his boxers and Steve couldn’t deny him, hasn’t ever been able to, hasn’t ever _wanted to_. Steve’s known since the second Bucky spoke his name for the first time that he’d spend forever giving him exactly what he wanted.

"I've got you."

Shoving Bucky’s underwear down his hips, pulling it away, Steve pushes his own away, too, grinding down against him and slipping one of his thighs between Bucky’s, littering kisses along Bucky’s shoulders, his neck, nuzzling at the base of his throat. And Bucky’s arms come to circle Steve’s shoulders, rocking up against him and soon they’re moving together like they’re meant to do it, one unending motion, every roll of Bucky’s hips sending sparks of pleasure shuddering along Steve’s spine, pulling more shattering sounds from Bucky’s lips. 

Bucky tugs him down for another kiss, different and a little demanding, licking into Steve’s mouth and when Steve snaps his hips down Bucky keens into his mouth, back arching as he comes, hot and slick between them. Steve presses his forehead into Bucky’s neck, seeing stars as he follows afterward, drunk on the sound of Bucky’s breath hitching and riding it over the edge, his body strung taut for a single, blinding moment.

Rolling to his side, Steve pulls Bucky to his chest, drops a kiss in sweat-damp curls and feels Bucky settle against him, a sleep-heavy arm coming to rest at his waist. Their breathing slows in the silence that follows, and for a few moments Steve thinks Bucky’s sleeping until he feels him grinning sharp against his shoulder. And Bucky’s laugh is _amazing_ , echoing between their chests and Steve can’t help but join him, reaching to brush his knuckles along Bucky’s cheek, tracing the curve of his lips with his thumb. Bucky catches his hand, tangling their fingers together, his words barely a whisper, and Steve’s sure that smile’s going to put the rest of his memories to shame.

“You aren’t just a dream.”


	2. i'm there by your side

**epilogue; two years later**

“Barnes, you’ve got a customer who wants to see you.”

Bucky looks up from the pork chops he’s saucing, squints at Natasha over his shoulder. He doesn’t have _time_ for this, it’s twenty minutes to midnight and some people still haven’t gotten their final courses, what the hell kind of New Years Eve party is this?

“What the hell do they want, aren’t you the owner?”

Natasha’s dressed for the party, stunning with dark green silk wound around her waist, but somehow when she crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow at him, she still looks nothing but menacing.

“Yeah, the owner that cuts your checks. Get out there. Table Eight.”

Clint takes over the pork chops without so much as a nod, and Bucky wipes his hands off on the towel he keeps below the line, pushes a hand through his hair. He’s not exactly in party shape, himself, but at least his coat’s still clean – and the fact that it’s the second coat of the night is no one’s business but his own.

Banging out of the double doors into the dining room, Bucky wends his way through the packed tables, narrowly avoiding Anya, still not any bigger than the tray she’s carrying, laden down with glasses of champagne. Table Eight’s near the windows, with an amazing view of the skyline, but Bucky’s not seeing any of it, entranced by the people huddled around the circular table, talking and laughing and passing plates and – none of them have noticed him yet.

“ _Steve_?”

Steve’s seated at one side of the table, between his parents, leaning over to refill Bucky’s mom’s wine glass. Bucky’s dad’s got his arm slung over the back of her chair, their backs to Bucky, and Becca’s busy laughing, her head tossed back, no doubt at one of their dad’s jokes if the wine’s been flowing a while.

And of course Steve notices him first, his eyes drawn to Bucky like they always are, sharp and smiling, seeing _everything_ , and he’s not supposed to be here for another two days, they’re supposed to fly back to New York together after the holidays –

Excusing himself, Steve drops his napkin on his chair, taking the few steps to Bucky and pulling him in for a kiss, soft and quiet and a new kind of familiar, the kind that comes with two years of practice and long weekends, flyer miles and so, so many dreamless nights.

“Hey,” Steve looks _gorgeous_ , in the dark suit Bucky’d made him buy before his first gallery show, the first night they’d said ‘I love you’ and the very last time Bucky ever compared the Steve that lived inside his head to the one that he’s managed to keep wrapped up in his arms.

“Hey,” Bucky replies, sort of dumbly, grinning up at Steve and trying to read his expression, sort out what it is that’s gleaming in his eyes.

“What’re you – you’re not supposed to be here for a few more days, I wasn’t –“

Steve takes his hand, pulls him toward the table and settles him in the chair he’d just vacated. Bucky takes the glass of champagne Steve’s mom offers, smiling at her, and there’s a sort of unreadable joy on her face, too.

“I really should –“

Cutting across him, Steve breaks into a chuckle, the blush Bucky’s never going to be over sparking along his cheeks.

“Don’t worry, I know, I just – Had a question for you first.”

**Author's Note:**

> "I recognized you instantly. All of our lives flashed through my mind in a split second. I felt a pull so strongly towards you that I almost couldn't stop it."
> 
> **\- J. Sterling, _In Dreams_**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Counting Backwards While the Stars are Falling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1997238) by [RequiemForTheWolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RequiemForTheWolves/pseuds/RequiemForTheWolves)




End file.
